


Cold-cocked

by Insular_Keyboard_Chimp



Series: Thawing Grave [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games)
Genre: Culture Shock, Gen, Mental Anguish, psychopathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-13 14:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11187348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insular_Keyboard_Chimp/pseuds/Insular_Keyboard_Chimp
Summary: The sole survivor isn't a good person. In the old world, they called her efficient. If it weren't for the decorated uniform and patriotic fervor that preceded the demolition of the entire country, she suspects they would've called her a monster.





	Cold-cocked

The sole survivor — it was getting more difficult to recall her given name — had deciphered the code to the Railroad Headquarters shortly after discovering their existence. The sticky-fingered sneak had swiped a holotape out of KL-E-O's storefront and popped it in her Pip-Boy for a listen. The Silver Shroud broadcast was getting on her nerves; the host was an overgrown kid that'd overdosed on starry-eyed idealism. Sole — Mary, I'm Mary — wanted a hit of whatever Fred Allen was pushing. Granted, Mary had cut back on the chems since the incident with Cait. She'd even left the frisky bitch at the Red Rocket truck stop near Sanctuary to man the fort. It wasn't that they'd grown distant, or anything, but Mary felt like she'd be a bad influence on the former addict. A bad influence on _Cait_! What was she becoming? Visiting the Goya-esque butchery of Pickman's Gallery was like a trip to the Louvre for Cait. It was the first time Mary had ever seen Cait  _appreciate_ anything that wasn't a muscled tuchus or a blood-spattered shotgun.

It was easy to blame the drugs. One too many doses of Psychojet left Mary itching to fry a Triggerman into neon plasma paste. Lax trigger discipline, she told herself.

Sometimes, during the war, Mary would find a cowering conscript with his rifle jammed into his mouth. Sometimes they were too incoherent to reason with, so Mary left them to their morbid business. The stronger ones would glance at her uniform and shake off their despair. Those were the soldiers who made it to the front lines. They came back in boxes, letters, and occasionally caskets. Most of them were baptized in nuclear fire and laid to rest in a crater.

War was ugly. _People_ were ugly. U.S. Army Staff Seargent Mary Kline was not. As a decorated member of the Commonwealth sniper cell, Mary was clean. Spic and span, polished boots, oiled rifles. Rise early to rendezvous and powernap before a night recon mission. Perfect trigger discipline. Perfect soldier. Perfect killer, murderer, amoral monster with a stiff cap and a glossy ribbon and --

"Woah! Hot-shot finally made it! Don't mind if I interrupt, do you, Dez? Thought not."

_Who the fuck?_

"Do you have something constructive to say before I interrogate the intruder, Deacon?"

_That face -- one of Irma's pods -- Hancock's address -- I know him._

"This ain't a dime-a-dozen wastelander on a scavenger hunt. Come on, Dez! Haven't you heard about what this chick did for Amelia Stockton? Saving that kid in Diamond City from his own brother?"

 _The job at Covenant._ _This is the Underground Railroad for synthetic humans, and I am in their headquarters._

The sole survivor sharply fixed her attention on the prattling loudmouth behind the sunglasses, "You've been following me."

"Stalking is the sincerest form of flattery, right? Or maybe not. Who cares, anyway? You're right where we need you to be!" 

"You've been trailing me since I left the vault. Always in Goodneighbor when I was, pretending to be asleep in The Memory Den. I think you owe me some answers."

Desdemona side-eyed Deacon while keeping her gun trained on the sole survivor. She slowly holstered her firearm and addressed him sharply, "I'm leaving this one to you. Don't disappoint me." She turned to Mary and coldly explained, "You're lucky we're in need of extra hands. From what Deacon has told me, I suppose you're invested in our cause. Deacon will guide you through your first mission for the Railroad. If you succeed, we'll see what resources we can spare and brief you on further missions."

"That's it, then! You're one of us, you four-eyed frozen cadaver. Heard you're good with a scope. I'll run down and distract the bad guys and - BAM - job's done. If you don't mistake me for one of the bad guys, that is."

Deacon gave her a slick grin and headed towards the exit, "I'll fill you in on the road!"

Mary never got her answers.

She met Deacon thirty miles outside of the Railroad HQ in a radstorm. He was perched on a bench beneath a tarp, smoking a cigarette like he wasn't absorbing enough toxins to ghoulify him.

Mary was clad in an industrial gas mask and enough spare armor to absorb the impact of the shrieking wind. She didn't sneak up on him; he spotted her too quickly. It was a surprise, she briefly thought, that he could perceive her so quickly while she could barely trudge through the neon hail pelting the wasteland. She marched under the tarp without preamble, whirls of transparent smoke circling Deacon's shoulders as he stubbed out his cigarette. It earned her a tilt of his head and a placating smile. He'd talk first. He seemed like he'd talk first.

"Took you long enough," he said. Humored her with a chuckle.

"You told them about Covenant," Mary grunted, "How did you find out about Covenant?"

Deacon's mouth quirked down and up in a bemused little gesture, "Hard scene to miss. Yeah, I told them about the rescue of Old Man Stockton's daughter. I didn't tell them about what happened after."

"You could have stopped me."

"Not my orders," he shrugged, "why'd you do it?"

Mary tightened her grip on her rifle and grit her teeth, "I didn't want to. I went to deliver the news, tell them that the experiment was over. Wanted to convince them to become a normal settlement and forget that crazy doctor. They didn't let me get a word in - fired on sight. I started at the gate and they came pouring out, one after another, the turrets locked on."

"And Covenant was quietly wiped off the map," Deacon whispered with a hint of disdain - amusement - no, disdain. Mary can't read him.

"Did you watch?" Mary seethed.

"Had a bird's eye view. Left before your Pip-Boy could register me, though. Not  _that_ much of a thrill-seeker."

Mary saw something in Deacon's face soften and it made her shoulders sag. Hackles still up, but bile-flavored remorse on her tongue.

"What is this all about, then? Did you want someone who had no qualms killing settlers to rescue synths? Are you that radical?"

"I told you: the Railroad doesn't know why Covenant disappeared. They're thinking they relocated after the jig was up," Deacon explained in a solemn timbre, "You're talented, and we need talent, but you're not a monster. You can be somebody better, work for the cause. I'll watch your back so that nothing like Covenant happens again."

"How can you be so sure?" Mary asked. This fucking punk, holding her remorse against her? Telling her to become _better_ for _the cause_? Mary snapped, "Last time I worked for a cause, the _fucking planet exploded_."

Deacon didn't expect to get pistol-whipped with the business end of Mary's side-arm. Either that, or he was very good at pretending to be unconscious. From what Mary could tell, either option was likely.

Not the worst — not a raider — but a murderer all the same.


End file.
